Have you ever seen footage of a man being hit by a truck on a cold winter day? He could be anyone, your grandfather or uncle perhaps, and he's looking left and looking right and crossing the intersection. An everyday occurrence. You don't see them collide. One second he's crossing the street, a junk mail look on his face, a shopping list face, and the next he's a tumbling limb and a faint bloody trail. You rewind and try not to blink. You miss it again.
That's what David Young's poetry is like.
Now imagine that truck dragging his body five miles.